


Two Percent

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Hunting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Mutual Masturbation, Teen Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9890468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: Soulmates.It’s the kind of bullshit you read about in elementary health class and then have no need to take seriously until years down the road. Most people don’t even know the moment their internal clock decides they’re soulmate-ready, because most people don’t find their soulmate minutes after it happens. Then again, most people don’t find out that their soulmate is the brother they don’t evenlikeall that much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Something short and fun because I've been in a bit of a slump. Sort of a What Is and What Should Never Be-type universe, but where Sam and Dean get pushed back together when they're still pretty young.
> 
> Sam is fifteen in this story.

Sam’s in the backyard, resting easy in the hammock that he and Dean had strung up between two thick-trunked trees when Sam was just seven. It had fit both of them at the time, and that was back before Dean had hit puberty and grown up and away from everything about his little brother, back when they got along and were happy to cuddle up, share the space. When things were simpler. Now the hammock is where Sam comes when he wants to be alone. The early fall sun is yellow-gold and hot where it touches his skin, and he’s got _A Separate Peace_ resting on his drawn-up knees, working through his reading assignment for English this week.

There’s a tickle brushing at the back of Sam’s mind, a hint of curiosity, teasing at his awareness, has been for the past ten minutes or so. He’s been steadily ignoring it and intends to continue, but all of a sudden it’s a push more than a tickle, becomes insistent bordering on demanding, like someone shouting his name, _Sam!_ He shoves a thumb into his book and gives his own shove back with a huff, but he doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s sitting up, dragging himself out of his little nest of rope and pillows, wandering barefoot back inside.

That sure sense of awareness draws him through the kitchen and up the back staircase, to the closed door of Dean’s bedroom. He grits his teeth, staring at the silhouette of a baseball player leaping high in the air to make a catch that’s on the sign on Dean’s door. Below the picture, Dean’s name is printed in red letters. It’s from little league, back when Dean first started playing baseball, a time Sam was too young to really remember, but Dean still keeps it on his door.

Dean hit puberty and like a lot of siblings, they’d just stopped getting along. Sam became the annoying little brother tagging along, too young to do most of the things Dean and his friends did, uncool and unwanted. They didn’t fight outright, didn’t hate each other or beat each other up (too often) or anything bad really; they were just different. Dean got into shop and sports, while Sam joined his middle school quiz bowl team and took the SAT in sixth grade, spent three weeks of the summer away at a program for gifted students. Dean started partying—a lot—and Sam was old enough to judge him for it but also polite enough not to tattle about the things he knew Dean got up to. If something had been really serious, if he had ever really needed Dean, his brother would’ve been there, no question. But they were just regular kids, different people and happy to be that way. It had never bothered either of them, as far as Sam knew. It had all been fine.

At least until Sam hit puberty, too.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes the door open. “I swear, if you just wanted a drink or something….”

Dean’s sprawled on his bed in basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt, music playing out of the speaker on the nightstand, something old that Dad would have listened to and Sam doesn’t have much of a taste for. Dean holds up his hands, placating. “Hey, no. I—I just….”

He trails off but the _missed you_ is there between them anyway, the feeling of it echoing, and it twists Sam up inside, frissons down his spine like something he doesn’t want to enjoy, but does anyway.

“Oh,” Sam says, a little dumbly. He lingers awkwardly in the door frame, shoves one hand into the front pocket of his hoodie, holds up his book with the other. “I was just reading, for class.”

“Oh,” Dean says too, and god. Even when they didn’t get along, they were never like this, uncomfortable and stilted. Sam hates it a little. Sometimes he thinks it’s getting better, but he’s not really sure. “You could read in here,” Dean continues, voice casual like Sam can’t feel that Dean wants him here. “If you want.”

Sam hesitates. Part of him wants to run back downstairs, out into the sunshine where he can pretend none of this ever happened. It’s the same part of him that’s been running since all of this started, but it gets weaker every day. Because really, what’s the point? It’s not gonna change anything.

“Sure,” he says, steps across the threshold, and there’s an easing of the tension that’s in his chest or in Dean’s or maybe in the air between them, he’s not really sure. He turns to shut the door behind him. “You gotta turn down the music though.”

“’Kay,” Dean agrees, more easily than Sam expected him to, reaches awkwardly around his own body to thumb at the volume knob. The sound fades down to something more like background music as Sam unzips his hoodie, shifts his book from hand to hand so he can take the jacket off and toss it on the floor because it’s warmer in here than it had been outside. He clambers onto the mattress, grabs a few of Dean’s numerous pillows (because his brother is totally a girl) and makes a place for himself on the headboard, next to Dean.

Neither of them mentions the empty desk chair. It’s just best not to.

Sam flips the book back open where his thumb is still resting, and in a way that is totally, definitely casual, lets his right leg fall down and open so that his knee, bare below the end of his cutoff sweats, bumps into Dean’s, also bare, and stays there. The instant warmth that it sends through him, a glow that takes up residence somewhere deep down and unreachable to him alone, is soothing, peaceful, addictive. It had scared him at first, the power of it, the buzz he could get off a simple touch, but he craves it more and more all the time. It’d be fucking embarrassing if his brother weren’t pushing his knee right back into Sam’s, trying to spread that narrow point of contact into a wider patch of skin.

This has been hard on both of them, but Dean’s always been a little more willing to roll with what life gives him, so much less of a need to overthink everything than Sam, so he’s been adjusting more quickly.

Sam swallows around all of the feelings in his gut.

_Soulmates._

It’s the kind of bullshit you read about in elementary health class and then have no need to take seriously until years down the road. Most people don’t even know the moment their internal clock decides they’re soulmate-ready, because most people don’t find their soulmate minutes after it happens.

Then again, most people don’t find out that their soulmate is the brother they don’t even _like_ all that much.

One hundred and forty-seven days after Sam’s fourteenth birthday, his body had decided it was ready for its soulmate. And ten minutes after that, Dean had come rushing back into the house because he forgot his lunch and turned the Impala around halfway to the garage. It could have been anywhere in that ten minutes that Sam changed, but all that matters is that when Dean had rushed down the stairs on his way out the door that morning, stolen a piece of toast off Sam’s plate with one hand and worked his foot into his shoe with the other, Sam and Dean were just brothers. And ten minutes later, when Dean threw open the front door with a bang much louder than necessary at seven in the morning and headed for the fridge, they became more.

Sam doesn’t know of anyone else in their situation. He even made Dean drive him to the Jayhawk library to research it. There’s a lot of strange and funny and even depressing soulmate stories out there, but none like them. No brothers. He knows they can’t be the only ones—it’s just implausible, really. But he’s smart enough to realize that it’s not something anyone else in their situation is talking about.

So they aren’t talking about it either. No one knows but the two of them. Sam’s not sure they’re ever going to tell anyone, period. It’s rare for people to never find their soulmate, considered sort of a tragedy, but at least Sam’s _heard_ about those stories. He knows in a general sense that it’ll probably break Mom’s heart if both her kids came out defective but.

There are probably worse things.

Dean picks up the copy of _Scientific American_ he’d dropped on the bed when Sam came in and goes back to reading, so Sam settles into reading his book, too. He’s reached the part where Gene keeps trying to out do Finny in academics, and he might be projecting his own issues onto the characters but at least fifty percent of him finds it all pretty gay. He doesn’t think Ms. Farwell will appreciate that interpretation of the text though, so he’s trying to pick out something else to focus on in class discussion on Tuesday.

Unfortunately, he’s a lot more focused on the thrum of contact where Dean has started to gently tap their knees together. Just a small movement, rocking his knee up until it’s barely touching Sam’s and then back down until their skin is pressed more firmly together. It’s heady, distracting, and that twist down low in Sam’s stomach is back and pushing heat even lower. He wants to squirm where he’s sitting on the mattress, doesn’t want to look like the awkward fifteen-year-old he is, wishes he were wearing something a little more restrictive than sweats. Wishes he were smoother, like Dean, who Sam’s managed to see pick up no small number of women in his life despite Dean’s policy of never bringing them back here whether Mom’s home or not. It used to make him jealous, once he got old enough, how easy it was for his brother when Sam could barely manage more than a couple of close friends. To this day, he doesn’t have much sexual experience of his own (okay, none, not that he’s ever told his brother that), and as much as he used to find them kind of gross, he also lived vicariously through the stories his brother would share after stumbling drunkenly home on Saturday nights to Sam, who’d stayed up playing video games. Those were some of the few times they’d ever talked. And maybe it was kind of weird that he used to think about women with his brother to get off, but sometimes Sam wonders if maybe it hadn’t been just a sign of everything to come.

The tapping of their knees becomes more of a back-and-forth, a gentle rubbing, and Sam’s breath stutters a little on the way out of his lungs. The catch-drag of their skin, the dry friction of Dean’s leg hair, a little uncomfortable but sinking heat down under his skin all the same. The next drag is even slower, more deliberate, and Sam finally abandons the pretense of reading to look over at Dean, who is smirking devilishly back at him.

“Dean!” Sam starts. “What are you—don’t—don’t….”

“Don’t what?” Dean says, and this time it’s his hand on Sam’s knee, thumb rubbing over the reddened patch of skin he’d created. “Don’t tease you?” Sam swallows thickly, and it’s loud enough in the room between them that he’s sure Dean can hear it over the music. He feels himself blushing. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean prods, voice dropping a little lower, and Sam feels it like molten lead in his guts. That broad hand lays fully over his knee and squeezes before it retreats. Dean shifts back against the mattress, and now Sam notices the clear line of Dean’s cock, hard under his basketball shorts. That humming buzz in his veins, the heat of it, the intensity—it all suddenly makes more sense because it’s not just him that’s feeling it.

Dean hooks a thumb under the waistband of his shorts, gives Sam a low-lidded look, and Sam ignores the rush of sweat onto his palms and the way his breath picks up, _in out in out inoutinout_ , just lays back, gets his hands under his own shorts but then waits. Forces Dean to make the first move, can’t help the way his tongue comes out to wet his lips when Dean’s redpink cock slides into view. Sam tugs his own shorts down to cover his shudder, keeps his eyes on his brother’s to watch the spread of Dean’s pupils as he does it and for just a moment, Sam feels sexy, powerful. This is what it could be like to have control.

He puts a hand over his cock at little shyly once it’s exposed. They’ve done this now a few times, because neither of them can deny how much better it is when they jerk off together, but he can’t help it. Next to Dean, all big hands and broad shoulders and creamy freckled skin and working muscle and green eyes and pink lips and—yeah, next to all of that, Sam feels every inch of his skinny, bony, ugly teenaged body. Still, his dick’s hard and he’s got a feedback loop of horniness going between himself and his brother, so he shoves those feelings aside and curls his hand in a loose grip around his dick, gives a few experimental tugs.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs because his mouth never fucking quits, “that’s good.” He fists his own cock and groans into it, and Sam feels himself blushing hot at the sound.

Dean lets his dick go, reaches his right arm awkwardly backwards to his nightstand, works open the drawer and comes back with a bottle of Astroglide. “You want?” he asks, eyebrow raised over the pop of the cap.

Sam flushes deeper. “I haven’t, um...” he answers, licking his lips and thumbing at the head of his dick again. They’ve never done this in Dean’s bed before (not the first time, when Sam was in the shower and Dean was on the toilet, or the time after when they were watching one of Dean’s pornos on the living room sofa, or any of the times after that), and Sam’s never had the nerve to buy lube for himself.

“Here,” Dean says. He grabs Sam’s wrist, and the intense wave of _feeling_ that floods into Sam at the contact makes him gasp. Dean tugs Sam’s hand away from its work to squirt a little puddle of clear fluid into his palm. “It’ll feel so much better,” Dean assures him, and he lets go of Sam’s hand but his touch doesn’t disappear for long, grabs on to Sam’s other arm, fingertips digging into the tender skin at the inside of Sam’s elbow and it’s so nice Sam could choke on it.

Sam rolls the liquid around in his palm until it warms, then gets a good grip on his cock and yeah, yeah that’s—that’s _good_. His dick gets pretty wet on its own but it takes him time to get that worked up and here, in this room, with the slick sound of Dean jacking lube over his own cock and the way their breath keeps stuttering weirdly in sync, Sam knows he doesn’t have that kind of time. He’s not gonna last long at all, can’t even look over at his brother because that’ll end it too soon—worked up, hot under his skin and glowing deep down inside and yeah, _fuck_.

He slides his hand up and down his cock a few more times before he really settles into it, sets a speed that’s easy enough to hopefully help him hang on as long as possible. He likes the feel of it, likes the sound of it too, the slickwet suck as he moves, Dean making the same wet noises in his own rhythm, and it makes Sam think of sex, of fucking, of how it’s his insides that would be making all those hungry noises around the cock shoved snug up inside him, or of watching his own dick disappear into some other guy’s lubewet hole, of that other guy being Dean, fuck yeah, his big brother just fucking _taking_ it and _Jesus_. Jesus Christ.

“Sammy,” Dean says, _growls_ , and Sam feels it skip down his spine, where all the pleasure Dean’s been working up is glowing hot and ready and mixed up with Sam’s own. Sam realizes his eyes are closed and he opens them, realizes then that he’s been moving closer to his brother unconsciously, rolling himself inward towards that point of contact, Dean’s sure grip around his elbow. They’re almost facing now, Sam still working himself over with his left hand and he can see the jerk of Dean’s shoulder, can’t help himself but look down to Dean’s dick pumping through his fist, the rise and fall of Dean’s hips as he fucks into his own hand and Sam bites his lip hard, chews it raw but he can’t stop the moan that crawls out of his chest, one Dean echoes right back.

“Sammy,” his brother groans again, and Sam jerks his gaze up, locks right on to Dean’s, pupils so dark it’s hard to see the green and his eyes are wide and wet and his mouth is just, just. _Ripe_. Sam licks his lips again and Dean moves closer, like they’re poles, magnetized, pulling ever tighter together. “Sam,” Dean murmurs, and Sam feels the stuttering heat of Dean’s breath on his face, spreading over his lips, so close, that light inside him singing, _soaring_ , and he gasps, chokes, comes frantic all over his hand and the front of Dean’s shirt.

“Shit,” he breathes, blinks his eyes open from where he let them close again to find Dean still watching him, the color high on his brother’s cheeks and then Dean’s coming too with his own strangled noises of pleasure that Sam wants to hear for real, in their entirety. That Sam wants to be the reason for.

Sam watches his brother melt back against the headboard, finally lets go of the stranglehold he’s got on his oversensitive dick. They lie side by side, close enough now that they’re touching at hips and arms and elbows, their breaths slowing in time. The quiet sound of Dean’s music filters back into Sam’s awareness. The come on his hand grows sticky and dry, and the mortification starts to seep in. God, the stuff he’d been thinking, what the fuck is the matter with him? Is he really that twisted?

Dean heaves a deep sigh next to him, pulls Sam’s attention away from its downward spiral. He looks over at his brother. Dean’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the headboard. He’s got a cute nose, a fact Sam will never tell him. He’s beautiful, and he’s frustrating, and he’s sweet, and he’s been handling all of this so much better than Sam has, has forgiven all of Sam’s outbursts and anger and awkwardness and. And he’s Sam’s. For better, worse, for always, he belongs to Sam now. They belong to each other.

The moment is long since past, the heat that would have excused any number of behaviors on Sam’s part. The freaky soulmate draw to each other, the feelings they can’t help in uninhibited moments, has died down a little. It’s just the two of them again, awkward as ever, and Sam is just really fucking tired of it.

“Dean,” he says, and his brother opens his eyes. He looks so unsure, and Sam _feels_ it, knows Dean feels his own uncertainty echoing right back. But under it now is the knowledge that whatever this is, whatever it’s going to be, they’ll always be in it together—that’s what makes Sam move, makes him crawl onto his knees and lean in and press a clumsy, inexperienced kiss to Dean’s hot mouth.

He stays there, lingers for a moment, basks in the bright flare of _rightness_ that washes up inside him. Finally, a little reluctantly, he sits back onto his haunches.

Dean’s regarding him with a smile so small it’s barely existent. Sam doesn’t think anyone but him would be able to find it. “Yeah?” is all Dean says. Sam knows the rest of the question anyway.

He shrugs. “I have no idea what we’re doing,” he says, but it’s got a finality to it. They’re doing this. Together.

Dean nods, puts his clean hand over the back of Sam’s, rubs his thumb over the knuckles there. “We’ll work it out,” he says agreeably, and Sam briefly envies him again, his easy acceptance of things. But he appreciates it too, how different Dean is than him. How they balance each other out. Sam stopped getting along with his brother because he stopped understanding him and didn’t see any reason to try. Now, with Dean’s feelings in his mind and their hearts tied messily together, he can’t help but know Dean. And if there’s anything Sam’s been sure of his entire life, it’s that to know Dean is to love him.

Dean squeezes Sam’s hand, and then he’s shifting around, sitting up. He wants to make some shitty, smarmy comment, but he’s holding it back for Sam’s sake. “Let’s clean up, yeah?” is all he says instead.

They pull on their shorts and trudge to the bathroom, and Sam’s intensely glad Mom is still at work, especially when Dean tosses his come-splattered shirt into the laundry hamper and Sam finds his eyes catching on the bare skin of Dean’s chest, the freckles on his shoulders, the faint pinkbrown of his nipples and god, didn’t Sam like, _just_ come? What the hell?

Dean’s reflection in the mirror over the sink smirks as he washes his hands. He moves politely out of the way to give Sam a turn, but crowds Sam up against the vanity as soon as he’s finished. Those strong arms come up around Sam’s waist, pulling him close. Dean breathes against his hairline and Sam tilts his chin, inviting. Dean presses a kiss to the sensitive skin of his neck, and everything inside of Sam feels light, right, _good_. And for a few minutes, as Dean turns him slowly around, puts those broad hands gently, carefully on his face, waits for Sam’s barely-there nod before bringing their mouths together again, just the second time ever, a lot more ably than Sam had managed the kiss in the bedroom—for a few minutes, Sam doesn’t feel like he needs to worry.


End file.
